He tells himself he’s not doing anything. Not really.
He doesn’t message her anymore. That would be crossing a line. He knows that. He learned that after the third unanswered text, after the polite distance hardened into something that felt like jagged glass. He stopped before it became embarrassing. Before it became proof.
So now he just 'looks.'
Her profile isn’t private. That feels important. Like consent, almost. If she didn’t want to be seen, she’d lock it down. Everyone knows that. Everyone his age understands the rules.
He checks the time stamp first.
Last seen online: 2 minutes ago.
His stomach tightens, sharp and immediate, like he’s missed a step on the stairs.
Two minutes ago means she’s still awake. Still somewhere behind a screen. Still reachable in theory, if not in practice. It’s a small relief, followed instantly by panic. If she’s awake, she could see him too. Could see his name in the viewer list. Could notice the pattern.
He scrolls carefully, almost too controlled. He’s learned how to do that. How to move through her digital life without leaving fingerprints. He waits before tapping. He doesn’t refresh too often. He never opens her story right away. That would be desperate.
He’s not desperate.
He’s just… attentive.
Her story is a photo of a coffee cup and a textbook, the corner of a library table visible in the background. No face. No context. The kind of nothing-post that somehow says everything about you. Studying late. Focused. Productive. Doing fine.
He doesn’t open it yet.
He imagines her sitting there, unaware. That thought makes his chest feel tight in a way he doesn’t like. He tells himself it’s normal curiosity. Residual attachment. Breakups don’t switch off like lights. Everyone checks sometimes.
Everyone.
He opens the story.
The ring completes its circle. He’s now one of the names at the bottom of her screen, if she ever looks. That knowledge lands heavy and sour in his gut. He feels exposed, even though she hasn’t done anything. Even though she probably won’t notice.
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He hates that part...The way shame always arrives after the relief.
He closes the app and opens it again almost immediately. Checks her status.
Last seen online: just now.
His heart stutters.
Just now could mean anything. It could mean she refreshed her feed. It could mean she opened a message from someone else. It could mean she saw his name and thought about it for half a second before moving on.
He rubs his thumb against the side of his phone, skin already sore from repetition. He’s aware, dimly, that this isn’t healthy. The thought floats up sometimes, usually late at night or early in the morning when everything feels fragile and unreal.
You’re not okay, a small voice says.
This isn’t normal.
He agrees with it. Fully. That’s the worst part.
But knowing...doesn’t stop him.
He scrolls back weeks. Months. He knows the exact moment her tone changed, when replies shortened, when emojis disappeared. He’s catalogued it all without meaning to, the way you memorize exits in a building you don’t trust.
There’s a new post notification.
He freezes.
It’s nothing dramatic. A reposted meme. A joke he would’ve laughed at once. He doesn’t anymore. He reads the caption three times, searching for subtext like it’s written in a language only he’s fluent in.
It isn’t about him.
He knows that.
He still feels like it is.
He considers sending something, just a reaction, just a “lol,” something low-pressure and casual. Something that proves he still exists in her world. His finger hovers, trembling slightly.
He pulls it back.
He doesn’t want to be that guy.
He already feels dirty enough.
The night stretches. Her status changes again. Offline. Online. Offline. Each shift hits him like a verdict he can’t appeal. He imagines her life moving forward in small, invisible steps while he stands perfectly still, watching the clock hands spin.
Eventually, her profile goes quiet.
Last seen online: 3 hours ago.
He exhales, long and shaky. Relief mixes with something lonelier. Disappointment, maybe. Or loss. It’s hard to tell anymore.
He sets his phone face down on the desk. Leaves it there. Promises himself he won’t check again tonight.
Five minutes later, he flips it back over.
Nothing has changed.
Somewhere else, she sleeps. Or laughs. Or studies. Or lives an entire life that does not include him at all.
She doesn’t know he’s watching.
She doesn’t know he exists like this.
And somehow, that ignorant silence feels louder than it should to him.
He plugs his phone into the charger and watches the screen light up again, unbidden. Her name is still there. Her status unchanged. Proof of nothing, yet proof of everything at the same time. He imagines explaining this to someone someday. How it felt necessary, how it felt unbearable not to look...and knows he never would. No version of this sounds sane out loud. He locks the screen, presses it to his chest for just a second too long, and stares into the dark, wondering when monitoring someone’s absence became the closest thing he has to intimacy.
Terms & Conditions Apply beyond breakups alone, into the quieter, messier aftermaths we don’t always like to admit out loud. If you’ve been enjoying the series so far, your comments, follows, or reviews genuinely make a difference and help this story reach more readers who might connect with it.
